Disclaimer: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between males over the age of majority. The characters described in this story are fictional but the locations are not.
Authors Note: This story is a prequel to Ben's Weekend Trip to Utah and focuses on his experience the summer before college working at a scout camp.
As always, I reply to all emails at: [email protected]
Camp Parsons: Where the Mountains Meet the Sea
The MV Spokane ferry on the Edmonds - Kingston route chugs across Puget Sound, its engines roaring as it navigates through the choppy waters where I stand out on the open deck, my green Arc'teryx jacket flapping in the gusts that whip across the water. Gazing out at the waves, I feel excitement and nervousness as I think about my summer ahead.
This will be it - my first significant time being away from home, my parents, and my best friend Evan, while still in the closet. I push the anxious thoughts aside, focusing on the wind-swept scenery before me. The Olympic Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks shrouded in mist. There’s a thrill of anticipation at the thought of all the new experiences that await me for my new job at Camp Parsons, 2 hours west of my hometown, Lynnwood, WA.
As one of the resident Camp Commissioners, I’m going to be responsible for overseeing various aspects of camp operations, from programming to facilities management. My older brother Nick, an assistant scoutmaster with a troop in Issaquah, put in a good word for me with some higher-ups in Chief Seattle Council. I was hired for one of the coveted positions without having prior camp staff experience. It probably also helped that fewer people in my age group had it on their resume, only 2 years removed from COVID and the year scout camps were closed.
After graduating from Meadowdale High School, I took a weeklong course at BSA Camping School. Evan has remained with our original troop as he hasn’t turned 18 like me yet, but he decided to spend his summer coaching rowing programs with his club. I feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of being apart from my closest childhood friend. However, I know it will only get worse in the fall as I decided to go to college at the Colorado School of Mines, and he’s filling out his dream of rowing at the University of Washington for the Huskies.
You could say at 18 I’ve outgrown my late-bloomer phase. I’m now 5’8”, slightly shorter than Evan who topped out at just over 6 feet tall. Being in tennis and scouts, I’ve kept myself in shape through high school. I still have my rosy red cheeks, short brown hair, and bright blue eyes—features that make me look younger than I am, something my older brother Nick teases me about, but secretly I don’t mind.
A big gust of wind hits, and I stumble slightly. I catch against the railing, feeling a momentary surge of fear as I gaze out at the turbulent water. Laughing and shaking off the anxiety, I know I’m ready for this - whatever challenges lay ahead, I’m determined to face them head-on.
The ferry gives a low, reverberating blast of its horn, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance around to see families, summer travelers, and commuters all engrossed in their own worlds. A group of younger kids races along the deck, their laughter carried away by the wind. It’s a reminder that while I’m technically an adult now—at least in the eyes of the world—there’s still a part of me that feels like a kid on the inside, standing on the edge of something I can’t quite define.
Watching the shoreline grow closer as the ferry approaches the Port of Kingston on the Kitsap Peninsula, I return to the vehicle deck, following the crowd descending the stairs. The nauseating scent of diesel and lingering vehicle fumes fills the air as I make my way out of a narrow staircase to my Subaru Outback packed with everything I need for the summer. When the ramp lowers, the line of cars begins to move. I drive out of the terminal and follow Route 104 west to the Hood Canal Floating Bridge.
The highway narrows as I drive south into the small village of Quilcene, with signs for Olympic National Forest popping up alongside the road. The trees seem taller here, their moss-covered branches arching over the highway like a cathedral of green. The Subaru hugs the curves of the road, and I glance at the clock on the dashboard. I’m early for my check-in. Typical me—always leaving plenty of cushion time, just in case.
Finally, I see the turnoff for Camp Parsons, an RV Park with a country store. The road narrows further, twisting through the trees like a ribbon, until I come across a moss-covered sign for Camp Parsons with a well-worn bell hanging below it. It might not look like much from here, but this is the oldest scout camp west of the Mississippi – even Lord Baden Powell himself visited in 1926.
I park my Subaru in a small row of vehicles in a dusty lot in front of the trading post and am greeted by a middle-aged man, holding a clipboard. He strides over with a confident, practiced air, his dark blue Camp Staff jacket bearing the embroidered title Camp Director. His clipboard seems to hold endless lists and notes, but his expression is warm and approachable.
“Are you Jason, Benjamin, or Ryan? I’m guessing not Melinda,” he says, extending a hand. His voice is steady, with the kind of authority that comes naturally to someone used to running the show. “I’m Steve, the Camp Director. Welcome to Camp Parsons!”
“I’m Ben,” I chuckle awkwardly, shaking his hand. “It’s great to finally make it here!”
Steve glances inside my Subaru, loaded with two of Nick’s old soccer bags for my clothes, toiletries, and other essentials with my hiking pack next to them. “Looks like you came prepared. That’s a good sign. Let’s get you checked in and settled. Where are you from again?”
“Lynnwood.” I grin.
“Snohomish County, huh?” Steve says with a knowing smile. “Not too far, but far enough to feel like you’re out on your own. My cousin works for Boeing, but he lives in Monroe.”
“Oh really?” I reply, feeling fortunate Steve is opening up to me so quickly. “My dad works for Korry Electronics just beside Paine Field.”
Steve nods, his smile widening. “I grew up on Vashon Island, but my home is in Silverdale for the off-season. ”
He gestures for me to follow him toward a building labeled ‘Silver Marmot Grill’ above its door. The building is quaint yet functional, with a high, wide porch across the front, and several doors leading to offices and a meeting space.
Inside his office, the air is thick with the scents of pine, sunscreen, and the faint tang of salt from the nearby shore. Steve hands me a folder containing my welcome packet. It’s stuffed with maps, an orientation schedule, and a laminated staff badge on a lanyard with my name, Ben Smedstad, Camp Commissioner, emblazoned on it, next to a picture from my Eagle Court of Honor.
“Staff quarters are out by the dining hall on the other end of camp, it’s a walk from here, but at least you don’t have far to go for breakfast. It looks like you’ll be bunking with the exchange staff member we have on board from the Netherlands, August, he’s your age. Darren, our Program Director, left an hour ago to get him from SEA-TAC. Once everyone is here, you’ll get a full tour when we start training week tomorrow morning.”
“That’s awesome,” I reply, slipping the lanyard over my head. “I didn’t realize there’s exchange staff. It’s going to be interesting rooming with someone from the Netherlands.”
Steve chuckles. “Yeah, August seems like a great fit and there’s next to no language barrier there. It’s his first time in the US, but he’s worked camps back home, so he’s no stranger to the job. Plus, you’re both new to Parsons, so I’m sure you’ll figure things out together. Darren will introduce him when he gets back.”
He points toward a pathway leading through the trees as we leave his office. “Head down this trail to the staff quarters. You’re in Banting, your room should have a sign with your name taped on it. If you need anything else, my office is here. After you’ve unloaded into your room, move your car to the overflow lot across the road.”
I shake Steve’s hand again and say goodbye before heading back to my car to start unloading. When I get to the staff quarters I find my name in Sharpie on a folded piece of paper taped to a door with “August F.” below it. Upon entering the room, it seems as if someone has attempted to make August feel at home already with a Netherlands flag taped above one bed and a lone stuffed Marmot on the mattress.
Setting my bags down on the other bed I take a moment to take it all in. The room is sparse but clean, with a vinyl sheet floor that creaks slightly underfoot. The flag above the other bed adds a splash of color to the otherwise simple room, and the stuffed marmot—probably the camp mascot—brings a bit of whimsy to the space.
I start unpacking, folding clothes into a small plastic dresser, and arranging my toiletries on top of it. My hiking pack stays at the foot of the bed, ready for impromptu adventures. As I work, I can’t help but wonder what August will be like, and what his reaction might be if he figures out that I’m not straight. Working alongside someone from a different culture feels exciting but intimidating.
When I finish unpacking, I step outside to get my bearings. The trail leading back to the administration office winds through dense trees, their branches rustling softly in the breeze. From somewhere nearby, I hear the faint crack of a hammer hitting wood—probably the Camp Ranger doing some last-minute repairs before camp starts.
I park my car in the overflow lot before walking to the dining hall to see what’s on the menu as it’s already late afternoon. The trail back is alive with the sounds of camp—birds chirping, the distant murmur of voices, and the occasional clang of pots and pans drifting from the kitchen.
The dining hall is a modern facility equipped with an impressive commercial kitchen, prominently displaying a Fire Marshal's sign indicating a capacity of 550 people. While Camp Parsons can host far more scouts than Mount Baker Council’s Fire Mountain, its location is considerably more remote.
“Hey Ben, hungry already?” Steve pats me on the back.
I turn to see Steve grinning at me, clipboard still in hand. “Not quite,” I reply, chuckling. “Just wanted to check out the dining hall and get a feel for everything before dinner.”
Steve nods approvingly. “Good instinct. Orientation and icebreakers kick off here after dinner, so it’s a good spot to get familiar with. Plus, you’ll spend plenty of time here during the summer—especially during meals and morning announcements.”
I take in the dining hall, its high ceilings supported by thick wooden beams braced with tensioned chains, creating a sturdy yet welcoming atmosphere. Long rows of tables stretch across the spacious interior, their arrangement orderly but inviting. Along the wall opposite the large windows, the kitchen and serving area bustles with activity as a few cooks prepare for tonight’s meal. The building exudes a sense of warmth and practicality, thoughtfully designed to handle the needs of a bustling camp while still maintaining an inviting charm.
Steve gestures toward the kitchen. “Our head cook, Margaret, has been running this kitchen for almost 5 years. She’s incredible—keeps the staff and Scouts well-fed. If you ever need a pick-me-up, ask her about her brownies.”
"Thanks, Steve," I say with a smile, feeling grateful for his help. As I turn to leave, the serene beauty of the beach across the clearing outside the windows catches my eye.
I exit the dining hall and walk across the clearing, and Hood Canal comes into view, its calm waters reflecting the muted colors of the late afternoon sky. Walking along the shore, I see a few sailboats tied up at the docks, and the salty breeze carries the unmistakable smell of the sound.
I take a moment to soak it all in—the mountains in the distance, the quiet rhythm of the water, the towering trees framing the campgrounds. This place has a rich history, far from anything I’ve experienced in Boy Scouts.
“Not a bad view, huh?” I hear behind me.
I turn around, half expecting to see Steve again, but instead, I see a staff member in their late 20s with curly brown hair standing a few feet away with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder and a handheld radio on his hip. As I admire his athletic build, I take notice of the lifeguard shorts showing off his toned legs admirably.
“Not bad at all,” I reply, trying to stop myself from blushing. “I’m Ben.”
“Eddie,” he says holding out his hand. “Beach Director, you’re one of the new Commissioners right?”
“Yeah,” I nod with a smile.
Eddie gives me a firm handshake, his grip is strong but friendly. “Nice to meet you, Ben. Welcome to Parsons,” he says, adjusting the coil of rope on his shoulder. “The Commissioners are a big deal around here. You’re gonna have your hands full, but it’s worth it. I started as a lifeguard, but did Commissioner for one year too.”
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling. “I’m looking forward to it. The waterfront is incredible—looks like you’ve got one of the best spots in camp.”
Eddie chuckles, glancing out at the canal. “Yeah, it’s not a bad office. You’ll see me down here most days, either running swim checks or teaching Scouts how to sail. If you ever need a break, swing by. We’ll find you something fun to do—maybe even throw you in a kayak.”
“I might take you up on that,” I say, laughing.
Before Eddie can respond, his radio cackles to life. ‘Darren’s back from the airport, and I heard they stopped at Dutch Bros!’
Eddie smirks, raising an eyebrow as he unclips the radio from his hip. “Copy that,” he replies into the device. “I’ll swing by the admin office in a bit.”
“I guess that’s my roommate too, I better go and say hi.” I give Eddie a quick wave and head back to the parking lot.
Approaching the Trading Post, I see a dusty Honda CRV pulling in. The staff member who I’m assuming is Darren steps out from the driver’s door, followed by his passenger on the other side, a tall, lanky, older teenager in a foreign crimson uniform shirt with a mop of bright red hair that seems to glow in the late afternoon light. He looks around with wide eyes, taking in the towering trees and rustic buildings like someone seeing a postcard brought to life.
I hang back for a moment, curious to observe. Darren grabs one of the passenger’s suitcases from the trunk and says something that makes him laugh, his freckled face lighting up.
Figuring it’s time to introduce myself, I walk over. “Hey,” I say, waving as they both turn toward me.
“Hey there,” Darren replies, setting the suitcase down and wiping his hands on his cargo pants. “You must be one of the new guys. Sorry, I’ve been on pickup duty all day. Name?”
“Ben,” I say, offering a smile. “I got here a couple of hours ago. Steve got me set up in Banting.”
“Ah, got it,” Darren says with a nod. “Well, this here’s August. He’s your cabinmate. August, meet Ben.”
“Nice to meet you too,” August replies, his Dutch accent soft but unmistakable as he shakes my hand firmly. “I hope you like coffee—they made me try Dutch Bros on the way here. It’s... very sweet.”
I laugh, glancing at the cup in his hand. “Yeah, that’s their thing. Welcome to Parsons. How was the trip?”
“Long,” August says, “But Darren made the drive here fun, and this place—it’s like something out of a movie. So many trees, and the mountains—wow.”
“Wait until you see the waterfront,” I say, chuckling. “It’s even better.”
Darren touches August on the shoulder. “I’ll let you two get acquainted. Orientation starts after dinner, so make sure you’re there. And, Ben, if you boys need anything, feel free to grab me or Steve.”
“Will do,” I reply, watching Darren head toward the offices.
August grabs the remaining bag from the vehicle, and we roll his huge suitcases on the trail toward the staff quarters. Along the way, he tells me about his scouting experiences in the Netherlands, describing smaller camps focused on hiking, kayaking, and close-knit teamwork. He earned the highest rank in Dutch scouting called “Verkenner”, equivalent to my Eagle Scout. August is intrigued when I mention my involvement in the Order of the Arrow, as there is no organization similar in his country.
When we reach the room, August pauses in the doorway, his eyes wide as he spots the Dutch flag taped above one bed and the stuffed marmot perched on the pillow. “Is this…?” he begins, trailing off as he steps inside.
“It wasn’t me, looks like the staff wanted to make you feel at home,” I say with a smirk.
He lets out a laugh, running a hand through his unruly red hair. “They didn’t have to, but it’s nice. This beaver—does it have a name?”
“It’s a marmot actually, but no, not yet,” I respond, watching him as he picks up the stuffed animal, turning it over in his hands. His long fingers linger on the marmot’s soft fur, and I can’t help but wonder what those hands would feel like—
I quickly shake the thought away. “Guess you’ll have to name it.”
He glances at me, his green eyes sparkling. “How about Bram? After a scout back home who always made people feel welcome.”
“Bram it is,” I say, smiling. “Good choice.”
August begins to unpack his things, spreading items across his bed with a casual precision that suggests he’s used to living out of his suitcase. Trekking poles, hiking boots, and a few books in English find their places, but it’s the clothing—brightly colored and distinctly European—that catches my attention. Among the items are a pair of cobalt-blue Hummel soccer shorts, their white side chevrons sharp against the vibrant fabric, and several pairs of underwear from brands I’ve only ever seen in ads or on social media: Le Coq Sportif, Björn Borg, and HUGO BOSS.
I feel a rush of heat to my cheeks as I glance at the neatly folded piles, trying to concentrate on straightening out my REI sleeping bag I’ve opted to use instead of bedding. But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I steal another glance, marveling at how different his style is from the plain, earth-toned clothes I brought to wear aside from my uniform. His belongings feel like an extension of his personality—bold, vibrant, and unapologetically unique.
“Do you play soccer?” I ask, gesturing toward the Hummel shorts to steer the conversation into safer territory.
August glances up with a grin. “Football, you mean? Yes, a bit. I'm not on a team anymore, but I still like to kick a ball around when I can. You?”
“Not really, just in the backyard and stuff,” I admit, laughing nervously. “My brother played it in high school and I played Tennis.”
He chuckles, folding the shorts and placing them in the dresser. “Maybe we can play sometime. I’ll go easy on you.”
“Deal,” I reply, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach as he walks in front of me. His movements are fluid and unhurried, and I catch the faintest scent of his body spray—a subtle, woodsy fragrance that feels oddly comforting.
August pauses, holding up a pair of orange Nike boxer briefs with a cheeky grin. “What do you think? Too much?”
I laugh, my cheeks flush. “Bold choice. Very... Dutch.”
He laughs along with me, tossing them into the drawer. “Maybe I’ll only wear those when I want to stand out.”
I force myself to focus on moving my stuff to make room for August, but my thoughts keep drifting back to him—his easy confidence, his laugh, the way he seems so at home in his freckled skin. Sharing a room with August will be a challenge in more ways than one, but for now, I’m just trying to keep my cool.
As his final touch, August props a small pewter windmill on the windowsill above his bed, explaining that it’s a gift from his unit to remind him of back home. Looking at August’s windmill, I’m reminded of the beautifully carved Dala horse I keep on a shelf in my bedroom back home. My dad picked it out for me at the National Nordic Museum in Seattle when we visited to help me connect with my Swedish heritage.
By the time the dinner bell rings, any initial awkwardness is gone between us, but I haven’t picked up any hint from August about how he might react to my preferences for men. “Ready for your first American camp meal?” I ask.
He grins, his freckled face lighting up. “I don’t know what to expect, but I’m ready to find out.”
We walk to the dining hall together, the sound of laughter and voices growing louder as we approach. August’s enthusiasm is infectious, and I feel fortunate to have such a friendly bunkmate.
With our plates and trays, August looks at the long line of food before him, but his face looks aghast when he picks up the serving spoon for the pale orange Mac and Cheese. He pokes at the slimy cheese with the spoon, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “This… is not what I expected,” he says, his accent lending a lilting musicality to his words. “Is it supposed to be this… orange?”
I laugh at his almost childlike inquisitiveness, grabbing a scoop for myself. “Welcome to the USA. It’s a classic, though not exactly gourmet.”
He hesitates for a moment before spooning a small portion onto his plate. “I’ll try it, but if I die, you must tell my family I was brave.”
“Sure thing,” I reply, feeling a strange warmth in my chest. I focus on my tray, hoping the rush of heat doesn’t creep up again.
The line moves quickly as we fill our trays with camp staples—grilled chicken, a side of green beans, and a brownie wrapped in plastic for dessert. August eyes the brownie with relief, muttering something about how chocolate can save any meal.
We find seats at a table near a window, the hum of conversation and laughter of about 40 staff members filling the cavernous hall. As we sit down, I’m powerless not to notice how August’s red hair catches the light again, making it seem like it’s glowing. He catches me looking, and I quickly drop my gaze to my tray, feeling my ears burn.
He takes a tentative bite of the mac and cheese, his freckled nose wrinkling slightly. “It’s… different. Not bad, but I wouldn’t call it good.”
I grin, stabbing a piece of chicken with my fork. “That’s camp food for you. By the end of the summer, you’ll either love it or swear off mac and cheese forever.”
August chuckles, his laugh low and warm. “I’ll let you know.”
I look behind me and see Eddie emerging from the chow line, his easygoing smile already in place as he scans the area for an empty seat among the occupied tables. His eyes land on me, and he ambles over, plopping down across from me with a friendly grin. "Hey there, Ben! So, how's our international guest holding up?" he asks August, easy to point out because of his distinctive uniform shirt.
August raises his fork like a trophy. “Still alive. Barely. Though I’m not sure about this cheese.”
“You’ll get used to it—or learn to stick with salad,” Eddie replies grinning. “I’m Eddie by the way, I’m the one in charge of everything on the water.”
“Oh neat!” August puts down his fork. “I’m August. They have me working in what do you call it…. Camping Skills?”
“Scoutcraft,” Eddie corrects him. “Ryan’s your lead, he’s new to Parsons as well, so I haven’t met him. Hope you are both settling in.”
“We are,” I reply. “August is already making it feel like home. He’s got this little windmill on the windowsill. It’s kind of charming.”
August’s lips curve into a small smile, and for a second, I feel like I’m the only other person in the room. Eddie clears his throat, and the moment breaks. I shove a piece of chicken into my mouth, hoping the distraction is enough to calm the strange fluttering in my stomach.
After dinner, the staff gathers for introductions and icebreakers. Darren and Steve lead us through the week’s schedule and introduce the department heads for each section: Beach, Tower, Kitchen, Scoutcraft, Ecology Conservation, Craft Lodge, and Scout Skills. Finally, he calls up a staff member in his mid-20s with clean-cut Chesnutt brown hair. His navy blue jacket, embroidered with ‘Head Commissioner’ in gold thread, gleams under the bright lights as he steps to the front.
“And this,” Steve announces with a grin, “is Ander, our Head Commissioner. If you’re part of the Commissioner team, he’s your go-to guy.”
Ander surveys the room with a calm, confident expression, his dark eyes seeming to take in every detail. “Evening, everyone,” he says, his voice deep and measured. “I’m Ander, and I’m excited to work with all of you again this summer. To the Commissioners, you’re not just here to solve problems—you’re here to set the tone for the entire camp. Let’s make it a good one.”
There’s a round of applause as Ander steps back, and I feel a mix of awe and nervousness. He carries himself with the kind of demeanor that commands respect, and I’m already wondering how I’ll measure up under his leadership.
The introductions wrap up, and the staff breaks into smaller circles for icebreaker games. As the staff mingles and laughs, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I find myself face-to-face with Ander.
“You’re Ben, right?” he asks, his tone friendly but direct.
“Yes Sir,” I reply, standing a little straighter. “Ben Smedstad.”
Ander nods, his expression softening slightly. “You don’t have to call me Sir, Ander is fine. You’re new to camp staff and even the Council, but come highly recommended Steve said. Welcome to Parsons. How are you settling in?”
“Pretty well,” I say. “The staff’s been great, and my roommate, August, is here too. I think it’s going to be a good summer.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Ander says, crossing his arms. “I can tell you’re ready to take on the job, as a Commissioner you’ll have to wear many hats: problem solver, inspector, and mediator just to start. I’ve been working summers at Parsons since I was 16 and I’m 26 now, but you know there was one year I had to leave the job midseason when I was a Commissioner and fresh out of high school. Just like you.”
As Ander finishes speaking, I feel a throb of curiosity about his past experiences as a Commissioner. "What happened?" I ask, my voice as quiet as possible.
Ander's expression turns serious, and he glances around the room to ensure we're not being overheard. "I had a Mental Health Crisis," he says quietly. "I was struggling with the pressures of the job and depression of being away from my girlfriend back in Renton, and it took a toll on me. I ended up leaving mid-season without warning."
I feel a pang of understanding, realizing that Ander's experience might be similar to mine as this is my first job. "I can imagine," I say, trying to sound empathetic.
Ander nods, his eyes locked on mine. "But I learned from my mistakes," he says firmly. "I'm grateful Steve took a second chance and let me return the next summer and eventually up the ranks as Head Commissioner. I promise you, Ben, it might seem like a monumental responsibility at first, but I'll do everything in my power to help you succeed."
“Thank you,” I say, feeling both reassured and slightly intimidated. “I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will,” Ander replies. He glances around the room, his gaze lingering on the lively circles of staff swapping stories and jokes. “This camp has a legacy, Ben. It’s up to us to ensure it keeps thriving. You’ve got potential—I can see that already. Just remember, it’s not about trying to be perfect; it’s about showing up and doing the work.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say, grateful for the advice.
Ander gives me a firm nod before moving on to greet another staff member. I take a deep breath and glance across the room to see August chatting animatedly with Eddie. The two of them are laughing over something, and I feel a warm sense of belonging for a moment.
After the activities, August and I check out the staff showers in the kybo. The clean facility, tucked away among the trees, features stalls with individual changing areas.
“This is nicer than I expected,” August comments, his Dutch accent giving the words a lilting quality. He peers inside the stalls, his green eyes wide with curiosity. “It’s like a little hall for each shower.”
“Yeah, pretty much every camp had to be reconfigured this way since I started,” I inform him. “It has to be this way now because of youth protection policies and some of the staff is still under 18.”
We each claim a stall, and I let the hot water wash away the dust and sweat of the day. The shower is small but functional, the water pressure is surprisingly good. As I rinse off, I can hear the faint sound of August humming a tune in the adjacent stall—a cheerful melody that makes me smile despite not knowing it.
After my shower, I step into the small changing area and quickly pull on a pair of basketball shorts and my OA lodge t-shirt. When I step out, August is already outside his stall, toweling off his damp red hair. He’s wearing a pair of athletic shorts, the towel slung loosely over his shoulders, and his freckled skin glistens faintly in the light of the kybo.
I feel my gaze lingering on him longer than I should. His lean, athletic frame is more defined than I expected, his shoulders broad and his arms toned. The freckles across his chest and arms seem to tell the story of someone who’s spent countless hours outdoors.
“Are you ready to go back?” he asks, glancing at me with an easy smile.
I snap out of it, quickly picking up my shower caddy. “Yeah, let’s go.”
As we walk back to our room, the cool evening air feels refreshing against my still-damp skin. August hums the same tune from earlier, his steps light and carefree.
The light is off when we enter the room, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the sparse space. August tosses his towel over the edge of his bed to dry, then starts rifling through his duffel bag.
As I hang up my towel, there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find Steve, holding a folded tan BSA uniform shirt with olive green shorts.
“Evening, guys,” Steve says, stepping inside. He hands the uniform to August, who takes it with a blank look.
“Your staff uniform,” Steve explains. “Darren forgot to grab it from the supply when you got here. You’ll need it for tomorrow’s orientation.”
“Thank You!” August says, unfolding the shirt and holding it up. “Looks good.”
Steve glances around the room, his eyes landing on my sleeping bag on the bed. “Ben, is that what you’re sleeping in?”
“Uh, yeah,” I reply, scratching the back of my neck. “Figured it’s easier than dealing with sheets, blankets, and all that.”
Steve raises an eyebrow but nods. “Fair enough. Just make sure you’re comfortable and stay hygienic—it’s going to be a long summer. I also have these for you and August.” he holds out four council patches for Chief Seattle Council. “As much as I love skiing at Mt. Baker, we have all staff wear Chief Seattle CSPs on their uniforms as it helps foster a sense of unity. There’s Badge Magic in the Trading Post if you use that. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow but by the end of the week. Just help August with where they go on his.”
“Of course Steve.” I nod my head.
Steve turns back to August, who’s now holding the uniform shirt against his chest. “Get some rest, both of you. Tomorrow’s going to be a full day. Ander also likes to have Commissioners up and out there at daylight, so you’ll both likely be awake early all summer.
“Thanks, Steve,” August replies with a grin.
As the door closes behind Steve, August buttons the uniform shirt over his bare chest. It’s slightly too large, the sleeves hanging loosely over his freckled arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“What do you think?” he asks, striking a playful pose.
“Looks good,” I reply with a laugh. “You’re one of us now!”
He grins, unbuttoning the shirt and folding it neatly on top of his dresser. “Guess I’ll save it for tomorrow.”
The first few days of training week at Camp Parsons are a whirlwind. Morning comes early with reveille echoing through the camp, and the day is packed with meetings, workshops, and hands-on training sessions. Ander, the Head Commissioner, is as intense as he let on that first night, but his leadership style is fair and encouraging.
Midweek, the exhaustion starts to set in. Days begin at dawn and stretch late into the evening, filled with team-building exercises, skill demonstrations, and endless reminders about the importance of safety and youth protection policies. By the time dinner rolls around, my mind and body feel like they’ve been put through the wringer.
Then, Wednesday night, after another grueling day, August and I head back to the cabin in near silence, both too tired to make much conversation. He’s carrying his uniform shirt slung over one shoulder, and I can see the fatigue in his freckled face.
“Long day,” he mutters as we step inside our room.
“Understatement,” I reply, kicking off my boots and collapsing onto my bed.
August doesn’t say much as he changes into his sleeping shorts and climbs into bed. The room is dark except for a faint sliver of moonlight streaming through the trees and window. I close my eyes, hoping sleep will come quickly.
But a rustling sound catches my attention. I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, and strain to listen. At first, I think it’s just August shifting under the covers, but the sound persists—soft and rhythmic.
I glance toward his bed, my heart pounding as I realize what I’m hearing. In the faint moonlight, I can just make out the outline of his body, the movement subtle but unmistakable.
Heat rushes to my face, and I turn away, my mind racing. I know I should ignore it, pretend I don’t notice, but it’s impossible not to be aware of every sound, every motion.
I close my eyes tightly, trying to will myself to sleep. But my thoughts are a chaotic mess, a confusing blend of embarrassment, curiosity, and something else I can’t quite comprehend.
August's quiet breathing and the rhythmic sound of his hand moving under the covers grow more pronounced, and I bite my lip, my arousal building in the darkness. His hand moves with purpose, the occasional soft gasp escaping his lips. I can't escape the feeling of a throb of envy for his unabashed comfort with his body, something I've never allowed myself to embrace fully.
After a few tense moments, his breathing stills and the room falls silent, save for the distant night sounds of the camp. I know he's finished, but the tension in the air remains thick. I lie there a few moments longer, my body taut with unfulfilled need.
Finally, unable to ignore the ache in my groin, I slide my hand over my blue dazzle Champion C9 basketball shorts and grip myself, stroking softly. The fabric feels silky against my bare cock, and I think of August's freckled chest and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed earlier in the day. I try to keep my movements as quiet as possible, not wanting to betray my secret desires.
As I stroke the outside of my dazzle shorts, the fabric grows damp with my precum, my hand moving in a steady rhythm that matches the memory of August’s from earlier. I imagine him wearing his blue Hummel soccer shorts, the same pair he’s had on all week after work, which cling to his firm ass and muscular thighs when he runs. His carefree spirit and gentle humor have been a bright spot in the exhausting training days, making me feel more at ease in this unfamiliar environment.
I bite my lip harder to stifle any sounds that might escape, my mind replaying the moment by the shower when I first saw him shirtless—his defined abs and the trail of red hair leading down from his navel. My grip tightens through the shorts and my breath quickens, the tension building. The scent of pine from outside mingles with the intimate smells of our room, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that fuels my desires.
With a silent groan, I reach my peak, my hand clenched tightly around my shaft through the fabric of my silky soft shorts. The warmth and stickiness spread, my body tensing and releasing as I cum, trying to keep as quiet as possible so as not to alert August to my own private struggle. My breathing slows, and I lie there, the sound of my heart echoing in my ears. The darkness feels heavier now, and the silence in the room is almost unbearable.
I pull my hand away and let it fall to my side, feeling multiple days' worth of spunk slowly seep through the material and likely into my sleeping bag. I should be embarrassed, but there’s a strange mix of relief and something else—a sense of shared vulnerability that’s both terrifying and comforting. I don’t dare look over at August’s bed, afraid of what I might see, or what he might say.
Instead, I force myself to roll over and face the wall, willing my breath to slow, but more confused than ever if I’m ever going to admit these feelings to August.
